


All Right For Fighting

by justbreathe80



Category: due South
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe80/pseuds/justbreathe80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting with Stella had always been almost spectacular - like fireworks off of Navy Pier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Right For Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for stop_drop_porn, from jadelennox's prompt of "statues." I admit that I played pretty fast and loose with it, and it took a back seat. Many, MANY thanks to brooklinegirl for the lightning-fast beta. *mwah*

With Stella, it hadn't been easy - not from day one, thirteen years old and stupid as hell. When they got married, it was almost like there was a grace period, where they both figured that, now that they were hitched, they should be fucking _nice_ to each other. That lasted about a month.

Fighting with Stella had always been almost spectacular - like fireworks off of Navy Pier. More often than not, for those first few years, the fights ended with Stella pinning Ray back onto their springy mattress and riding him until he was limp against the bed and coming, clutching her slim, smooth hips. They could laugh then, and go maybe a week before it happened again. He almost looked forward to it, even as he tried to avoid it - Stella's angry, pinched face as she yelled, the sound of Mrs. Salti from the apartment upstairs banging her broom against the floor to try to get them to shut up, the way his body felt primed.

It didn't take very long, though, before the fights mostly ended with Ray sleeping on the too-soft couch after six shots of whiskey, or Stella stalking out, the click of her heels sharp on the tile in the foyer, as the door closed with a majorly unsatisfying almost-noise that drove Ray up the wall.

By the end, Stella wasn't really talking to him, so they didn't have a whole lot to fight about anymore.

*****

With Fraser, it had been easy from the start. Easy in that way where Ray almost got killed a lot, and tried to keep Fraser from licking things and getting shot. He wouldn't say they fought, really; it was more that they had disagreements. About whether or not Dief should get a donut from the bakery around the corner from the 2-7, or whether Fraser could actually expect Ray to follow him out of a third-story window.

That day, on the lake, when Fraser came back at him, raising his voice, and Ray threw a punch, Ray knew that their partnership was fucked, but it felt so goddamn _good_ to hear Fraser yell - to see him be unreasonable about something (which he was all the time), but willing to fight for it, for once. And later, Fraser's own fist connecting with Ray's jaw hurt like a bitch, but it was good, too.

That night, after almost drowning in Lake Michigan in a sinking _pirate ship_ and driving back from Michigan in brand-new clothes from K-mart, Ray didn't even pretend to be dropping Fraser off at the Consulate. Instead, he parked the car smoothly in front of his apartment building and got out, knowing that Fraser would follow.

"You're an exasperating man," Fraser whispered into Ray's ear, making him shiver as Fraser tugged the stiff, new t-shirt over Ray's head and thumbed open the buttons on the too-loose jeans. Ray laughed softly and let his fingers tangle in Fraser's hair, still damp at the roots, as Fraser swallowed him down.

It was like that, for a while, and sometimes Ray pushed Fraser's buttons for _days_ just for the pleasure of seeing him get all worked up, and he kind of liked the way Fraser lost his patience then, barely waiting until they got back to the apartment before slamming him up against the wall.

But when they got to Canada, everything changed. Not so much out on the ice - they were both too caught up in staying warm and alive and not getting eaten by polar bears to fight much at all. They clutched each other through layers of fleece and wool and cotton, in a tent so dark that Ray couldn't be sure it was Fraser at all, if he didn't know the rhythm of his breath better than his own. But once they got to town and found somewhere to board the dogs, and started sleeping in a newly rented house, it was like Fraser froze up. All those months of trying to stay warm, and Fraser went as stiff and frozen in that warm little house as any one of the bronze statues that Stella had dragged Ray to see at the Art Institute when they were kids.

They still fought. Well, okay, _Ray_ fought and Fraser stood there, his face blank. He looked exactly like he did when he stood guard outside the Consulate, or when Thatcher was ripping him a new one about the drapes or some shit, like nothing could get through. Not even Ray. It made him want to rage harder. God, it made him want to punch Fraser in the face again, and wasn't that just something.

Ray didn't know what it was - if Fraser was scared of _this_, this thing they had, or wanted him to fuck off and leave him alone in the cold already, or what, but when Ray had his bags packed and stacked up next to the front door, Fraser didn't move his hands from behind his back. Not once. And Ray didn't have it left in him to fight anymore.

*****

Vecchio was an asshole. With him, Ray couldn't even figure out which end was up, but it _worked_. Vecchio gave as good as he got, just like Stella had in those early, naive days, his face going red and his hands waving through the air as he worked up to almost exploding. Punches were thrown, but there was no _guilt_ behind them like there had been with Fraser. Vecchio grinned at him from where he'd slumped against the wall, the blood from his split lip bright and shiny on the palm of his hand where he'd wiped it off. Ray grinned back, licking against his knuckles where they’d split on the bone of Vecchio’s jaw, the sharp, iron tang of Vecchio’s blood against his tongue.

They fought about every goddamn thing. Vecchio never froze up in the stagnant, Chicago air, and he wasn't quiet about anything. Everything Ray did set him off. He was Italian, and still had some Languistini in him, for sure, and some days Ray just had to forget to put his shoes in the right place in the front hallway of the apartment for Vecchio to be pushing into his space and laying into him.

"Jesus fucking _Christ_, Kowalski. Do you think I'm your fucking mother or something?" Vecchio had Ray pinned up against the refrigerator, a hand firm on Ray's throat. Ray wondered if Vecchio had ever snapped anyone's neck.

"You're too ugly to be my mother," Ray shot back, pushing a little into Vecchio's touch. "Jesus, what the hell did I do this time?"

"If you leave coffee in mugs on the counter all day, you asshole, it's a bitch to clean up. It _stains_. Would it kill to rinse something every once in a while? Do a _dish_?" Vecchio looked pissed as hell, but Ray knew that, if he could still breathe, Vecchio was having fun.

It was like it was with Stella. Except even from day one, the fights with Stella were about the big things - kids, careers, family, wanting to turn Ray into something respectable. With Vecchio, it was about towels on the floor and leaving the toilet seat up and the goddamn _dishes_. It had never been, for once second, like it had been with Fraser, where Ray had no idea what they were fighting about, not one damn bit.

"Pardon me," Ray said apologetically, getting his hands on Vecchio's belt and unthreading the soft leather from the buckle. "I promise, I'll rinse. Okay? Happy?"

Vecchio took a deep breath as Ray pulled out Vecchio's dick, which was hard and angry and red. "Oh, blow me," he ground out, and Ray laughed as Vecchio released his hold and Ray slid onto his knees.

Vecchio's hands were soft on Ray's cheeks, pushing against the hinge of Ray's jaw to make him open up, take him deeper. Ray pressed Vecchio up against the refrigerator with his hands firm on Vecchio's hips. "Christ," Vecchio murmured, "if you could see yourself..."

Ray knew how he looked. His mouth was stretched wide around the width of Vecchio's dick, and Vecchio's hips were moving just a little, pushing the head up against the roof of Ray's mouth. Ray hummed and moved his hands off of Vecchio's hips and let him move, relaxing his throat and taking it. His head was swimming; he wasn't sure he was getting enough air, and the linoleum of the kitchen floor was killing his knees, but, god, he didn't care. Ray was so hard he thought maybe he could come just from this, just from blowing Vecchio in the middle of their kitchen on a Tuesday evening.

"Fuck, fuck," Vecchio said, pushing his fingers into Ray's hair and tugging his head back, hard. "Stop, goddamn it."

"What the fuck?" Ray gasped, sitting back on his heels to the take the pressure off his knees, his voice hoarse.

Vecchio just grinned, like he did after Ray punched him, and reached down to help Ray up. "Come here," he said, dragging Ray to his feet and spinning him around to face the ugly kitchen wallpaper, Ray's dick digging into the edge of the counter. Vecchio's hands were quick and fast on Ray's pants, and Ray couldn't even remember what they were fighting about anymore when Vecchio unceremoniously pushed two fingers into Ray's ass and pressed close against his back, whispering in his ear. All he could think of was opening up, the harsh, sexy-as-hell sound of Vecchio's voice in his ear, the way the fine cotton of his shirt rubbed soft against the skin on the small of Ray's back.

Whatever it was, it would have to wait until Vecchio had fucked him through the kitchen floor. And hell, it wasn't like there wouldn't be something to fight and fuck about tomorrow, and for as many tomorrows after that as Ray could get.


End file.
